This Game We Spectate
by somethingsdont
Summary: Brittany/Santana. Santana takes Brittany to a hockey game.


**Title**: This Game We Spectate  
**Author**: somethingsdont / zerodetorres on livejournal  
**Characters**: Brittany/Santana  
**Rating**: NC-17  
**Length**: 6,316  
**Timeline**: S2  
**Summary**: Santana takes Brittany to a hockey game.

* * *

"Hey, Santana, what's this?"

Santana, sprawled out across her bed, looks up briefly from her magazine. Brittany is standing next to Santana's desk, holding a flat cylindrical disc in her hand. "That's a puck," Santana replies.

Brittany hurls the black object across the room and jumps back, a look of sheer horror across her features. The puck slams into the wall with force. "_Santana_. What did you _do_ to him?"

"No, not—" Santana chuckles, eyes darting to her wall, now marred by a dark mark where the puck had scraped it. "Not the mohawked douchebag we go to school with. It's a hockey puck."

"Puck plays hockey?" Brittany's bottom lip juts out in a pout. "That's not a reason to kill him and stuff him into a cylind…rangle."

"No, what…" Santana frowns and tosses her magazine aside. "Britt, come here," she invites, tapping the empty space beside her on the bed.

Brittany eyes the motionless puck in the corner suspiciously as she makes her way across the room. "Are you sure that's not Puck?" she whispers as she plops down onto the bed and curls up next to Santana.

Santana pulls Brittany closer, waiting until Brittany's head is tucked safely against Santana's neck before speaking. "Yes, I'm sure I didn't kill Puck." She brushes her knuckles across Brittany's cheek. "Promise."

Brittany sighs, relaxing against Santana's touch. "Good, because I don't kiss murderers." She tilts her head to nuzzle her nose against Santana's neck. "Okay?"

"Okay," Santana agrees with a tiny grin, and not that she ever was going to actually _gut_ someone – despite her threats – but Brittany looking at her like that pretty much squelches any homicidal thoughts she's ever going to have. She runs her index finger down the length of Brittany's arm. "Have I really never introduced you to hockey?"

"No, I didn't even know you liked sports." Brittany tugs gently on Santana's necklace, her fingertip tracing the contours of the pendant hanging there. "Other than cheerleading."

"My dad played when he was younger," Santana explains, a faint smile playing across her lips before she pulls it back and sobers up. Her parents are a touchy topic, and she knows that Brittany knows it.

Still, Brittany is watching her expectantly, undoubtedly waiting for a childhood story she hasn't heard yet. Santana can't even wrap her head around that. She'd grown up with the girl. Brittany knows everything about her: insignificant things like how she likes ketchup in her mac and cheese, but also important things like how she actually wants to be a doctor like her father, only to prove that work and family can be juggled without sacrificing one or the other. Brittany knows all her fears, her insecurities, her dreams and aspirations—and there's a Rachel Berry word that she won't be reusing any time soon.

But Santana has those. Dreams. She sits in school every day with an air of _I don't give a fuck_, when really, high school is a complete and utter joke. She doesn't even understand how anyone can fail shit when it's so freaking _easy_. Brittany got a B- on a report in which she claimed the northern lights were really drunk rainbows, for crying out fucking loud.

Beyond that though, nobody realizes that Santana Lopez wants to go places outside the confining walls of Lima, that she doesn't want to be the hotshot cheerleader who hits the apex of her life before she turns eighteen. She has _dreams_. Some of them, only Brittany knows about.

That's the thing. Brittany knows _everything_. Everything that matters, anyway, and a lot that doesn't. But Brittany is still watching her, curiosity bright in her eyes. Somehow, Brittany still wants to know more, still wants to listen to Santana detail her life, still smiles like Santana's stories are the most interesting ones she's ever heard.

It makes Santana feel _wanted_, and not that she'd ever admit it, but it's a pretty special feeling.

Santana takes a quiet breath. "Remember in the second grade when all I wore were those jerseys with a penguin on the front?"

"Yeah," Brittany hums happily. "I loved them."

Santana smiles. "I know you did. You wouldn't stop touching me."

"Oh, that's not the reason I touched you," Brittany announces with a cheeky grin.

Santana's heart flips unexpectedly, and she tightens her grip around Brittany. "Anyway, my dad grew up just outside Pittsburgh, so he's a Penguins fan. That's why I wore those jerseys."

"But why do you have a pu-ck?" Brittany asks, enunciating the word like it's the first time she's ever said it. Immediately, she scrunches up her nose and sticks out her tongue like she's just tasted something gross. "I don't like that."

"Puck gave it to me," Santana answers, leaning down to press a kiss to Brittany's forehead.

Brittany lifts her head to look at Santana. "Puck gave you a puck?"

"Yeah." Santana rolls her eyes. "He thought he was hysterical."

"I don't think I can give you anything with my name." Brittany purses her lips thoughtfully, her hand traveling up the side of Santana's face. Brittany's fingertips settle against Santana's earlobe. "Do you want your ears pierce—d?"

Santana smiles, pulling Brittany back down against her chest. "You're adorable," she mumbles. "And my ears are already pierced, so I guess you're just going to have to give me yourself."

Brittany lifts herself again. "Oh, I can do that, I think. But how does that work?"

Santana rolls her palms up over Brittany's thighs, sneaking fingertips underneath her Cheerios skirt.

Brittany catches on, and her eyes light up. "Then I've been giving myself to you for a long time."

Santana almost blurts out something about it not being just about sex, but instead, she shifts Brittany against her so she can slide a thigh between Brittany's legs. "Yeah, that's right," Santana replies, her breath hitching momentarily when Brittany's thigh presses down. "Don't worry about Puck. He's an idiot."

Brittany rolls her hips against Santana's, pulling a soft moan from both of them. "What do they use a puck for anyway?"

"That's what they dribble around instead of a ball," Santana explains, trying to get her hands up Brittany's top.

Brittany stills her movements. "There's no ball?"

Santana pauses as well. "Nope, just that thing you tossed halfway across my room." She glances toward the corner where the puck is still sitting. "You're paying to get that big mark on my wall covered up, by the way."

Brittany bites her lip. "But I don't understand. Every other sport has balls. Basketball, baseball, football—"

"Footballs aren't round," Santana cuts in.

"They're still balls," Brittany argues. "Softball, handball, racquetball, um, golf ball…"

"Okay, stop," Santana instructs, pressing her hand against Brittany's chest. "Please. Getting nauseated. Way too many balls coming out of your mouth right now."

Brittany grins. "I'm just saying, Santana. Your favorite sport doesn't make sense."

"Let me take you to a game," Santana proposes, and the offer suddenly feels weightier than it really is.

Brittany tilts her head. "A game? Hockey?"

"No, Pac Man," Santana deadpans, reaching up to pull Brittany down for a kiss. "Yes, hockey," she murmurs against Brittany's lips. "It'll be fun. My dad has season tickets to the Blue Jackets. They suck, but it's still hockey. They're playing Anaheim this weekend."

"I don't know if I could watch a sport without balls, San." Brittany appears legitimately concerned. "Remember when I tried watching curling and we ended up having sex?"

"That's because curling is more obnoxious than a marathon of The View," Santana returns. "What's wrong with having sex the whole match anyway? Not like either of us didn't enjoy it."

Brittany worries her bottom lip between her teeth. "We'd be in public and you said no sex outside."

"Forget the balls. Forget the sex—temporarily." Santana takes a moment to collect her thoughts. "Hey, Anaheim's team name is the Ducks. The Anaheim Ducks."

Brittany's eyes light up, and Santana smirks in satisfaction.

* * *

There are several reasons why Santana hates driving longer than ten minutes at a time. Ten minutes happens to be approximately the time it takes to get from home to school, or from home to Brittany's, or from home to Puck's. The last one is strictly for alcohol nowadays.

She's actually made a list of reasons why she should never be made to drive more than ten minutes.

One. It fucking sucks.

So the list is pretty short.

She has a longer list of the reasons why she should never be made to drive more than ten minutes with Brittany as passenger.

One. Brittany knows every car game known to man.

Okay, that list is pretty short too. Whatever.

Lima, Ohio, is approximately two hours away from Columbus, Ohio. That's also approximately an hour and fifty minutes longer than Santana can tolerate. Not that she doesn't enjoy spending time with Brittany in a confined space, because when that space happens to be one of their rooms, that's actually pretty fantastic. But when her hands are preoccupied with handling the steering wheel instead of Brittany's legs, it becomes more of a lesson in sexual frustration.

Brittany is wearing a pink shirt with a cartoon duck across the chest, the words _I'm quackers_ emblazoned across the bottom. Santana has her Jordan Staal jersey on.

"How come I've never seen you wear that before?" Brittany asks, reaching across the console to tug at Santana's jersey.

Santana shrugs. "We're in our Cheerios uniforms five days a week. Sometimes six when Coach calls practice on Saturdays."

"But you don't wear this," Brittany presses, her hand trailing down to Santana's lap. "Ever."

"My dad got it for me for my sixteenth birthday," Santana explains, hoping that Brittany would just drop it.

"I thought he got you a car," Brittany replies, playing absentmindedly with the hem of Santana's jersey.

"He did. You're sitting in it. And then he gave me this." Santana shrugs again. "I wouldn't wear it out except to hockey games anyway, and I haven't gone to one of those since I was eleven."

When she speaks again, Brittany's voice is soft. "I think he bought it for you because he maybe wanted to go to another hockey game with you and didn't know how to ask."

Santana can feel Brittany's gaze on her, and she squirms against her seat belt. "No, okay? He gave me the jersey for the same reason he gave me the car. So he doesn't feel so guilty for always being at work."

"I don't think that's—"

"I don't care," Santana snaps, more violently than she'd originally intended.

Brittany's hand retreats to her own lap. Santana sighs and pulls her car to the shoulder of the freeway. She puts the vehicle to park and turns on her emergency flashers.

"My dad isn't like yours, Britt," Santana broaches, staring straight ahead.

"He loves you," Brittany counters.

Santana swallows hard, fighting the impulse in her chest to just believe what Brittany is saying. "He's busy."

"He _loves_ you," Brittany insists, "and he bought you the jersey because he doesn't know how to tell you."

Santana purses her lips and finally looks over. "What's this really about, B?"

Brittany's shoulders rise and fall. "That's why we give people gifts."

Santana doesn't know when Brittany's ever had trouble saying whatever's on her mind, but Brittany's fiddling with her bracelet and not looking directly and Santana, and Santana's chest tightens. She unbuckles, climbs over the console and squeezes into the passenger's side seat next to Brittany.

Santana brings her hand down over Brittany's wrist, covering her bracelet. "We don't have secrets, remember?"

Brittany leans her head on Santana's shoulder and just stays there for a moment. "I love you."

Santana exhales, feeling her own pulse hammering. "I know, Britt. That's not a secret."

"I know we have sex and that's awesome, but—is this like a date? 'Cause I know we hang out all the time, but this kind of feels like a date. Like a real one."

Santana's palm glides up Brittany's abdomen, feeling toned muscle even through her shirt. "Do you want it to be?"

Brittany nibbles on her lip in thought. "Can I answer that after the hockey?"

"Sure," Santana answers, nervous energy creeping into the pit of her stomach. She shakes it off and presses a kiss to Brittany's lips. There's something different there that Santana can't exactly pinpoint. "We've still got an hour and a half to go," she says, uncharacteristically soft, "so I'm going to get us back on the road, okay?"

Brittany nods, and Santana climbs back onto the driver's seat, but not before brushing a kiss to Brittany's cheek. She feels Brittany's hand linger against her hip.

Brittany spends the rest of the ride trying to get Santana to play _I Spy_, and Santana spends those ninety minutes vehemently refusing to do so.

* * *

"Oh say can you _see_…"

"Britt."

"By the bronzerly light!"

"Brittany…"

"What so proudly we hailed, at the three lights last dreaming…"

"That's not how—"

"Who bought stripes and bright stars, through the pear and his fight!"

Santana shakes her head, laughing quietly to herself. Finally, she joins in and finishes the rest of the anthem with Brittany. The smile Brittany flashes her in return is totally worth it.

* * *

"I don't get it," Brittany says for the seventeenth time.

Maybe eighteenth. Santana lost count.

Brittany points toward center ice, then drags her finger across to one end of the rink. "So you try to get the puck in the net, right?"

Santana nods. "Yeah."

"Why don't they just pick it up and throw it in?" Brittany asks, mimicking a tossing motion. "Or kick it in? It's so tiny."

"That's against the rules," Santana explains patently, even though she's pretty sure she's already covered this one. "You have to use the sticks."

Brittany frowns. "That looks hard."

Santana bites back a 'that's what she said' and makes a mental note to quit hanging around Puck so much. "It is, but look at that stick-handling. Thing of beauty."

Brittany turns to her. "Can you play?"

"Not really," Santana answers. "I can skate pretty well, but—it was mostly just my dad taking me to games."

Brittany nuzzles up to her. "How come I didn't know?" Brittany asks, suddenly more interested in sucking on Santana's neck than watching the game.

Santana looks around nervously and then decides that fuck it. She sure as hell isn't going to let a bunch of assholes dictate whether or not Brittany can be affectionate with her, especially when—_oh_. She leans closer, momentarily losing her train of thought when Brittany's tongue brushes her skin. "He never had much time. It was just once in a while, and it was our thing. I don't know."

"It was special," Brittany says easily.

Santana rolls her eyes, cheeks hot. "It wasn't _special_. It was just something we did."

Brittany lifts her head to look at Santana. "It's okay, Santana. I don't tell you everything either."

Santana scoffs, but really, that kind of annoys her, even if she knows it shouldn't. "Like what?"

"If I told you, it wouldn't be something I don't tell you anymore," Brittany points out sagely, a small grin across her lips.

"Whatever," Santana grunts, something that is absolutely _not_ jealousy flaring up in her chest.

"You really liked it," Brittany remarks, lying her head back down on Santana's shoulder. "The hockey games. You really liked going to games with your dad."

Santana sighs. "Britt, what are you getting at?"

"I forget," Brittany chirps playfully. She yawns. "Hockey is kinda boring."

"Take that back," Santana immediately retaliates, turning to look at Brittany but getting a face full of blond hair. "Seriously, Britt, take that back," she adds, her words muffled.

Brittany giggles, pressing her head even closer. "Can you explain all the penalties to me again?"

"Okay," Santana agrees, twisting her face away, "which one do you want to hear about?"

Brittany's hand slides up Santana's thigh. "Roughing," she murmurs.

Santana grins. "Pushing or shoving someone after the ref blows the whistle."

Brittany hums, the noise low in her throat, as her hand slips under Santana's jersey, fingertips pushing up the shirt underneath. Santana inhales sharply when she feels fingernails lightly digging into her skin.

"Brittany," Santana half-gasps, trying not to squirm. "Don't tell me that description of roughing turned you on."

"Just watch the game," Brittany instructs, tilting her head to press kisses along Santana's jaw, down the length of her neck. Brittany's palm glides higher, fingertips grazing the bottom of Santana's ribcage.

Santana groans. "Britt, seriously, you're going to have to quit that or I'm going to stick my hand down your pants and we're gonna be arrested for indecent, _shit_, indecent exposure."

Brittany's hand cups Santana's breast over the bra, and Santana leans in, their actions hidden under the loose jersey.

"Britt…"

Just then, the crowd erupts into cheers as a loud horn blares. Brittany withdraws her hand and jumps up off her seat to join the commotion. Santana curses under her breath, suddenly unsure if she'd even wanted the interruption in the first place.

Fucking Rick Nash and his fucking ability to put the puck in the net. Fuck.

* * *

They miss second period completely. _Not_ Santana's fault. First period ends with the Blue Jackets up 1-0, and they'd left their seats in search of food during the intermission but somehow ended up in a dark, deserted hallway with Santana's tongue down Brittany's throat and Brittany's hand under Santana's bra.

Again, not Santana's fault.

"Britt, _god_, someone's going to catch us and kick us out," Santana manages to mumble, the words pressed against Brittany's lips.

Brittany pushes Santana harder against the wall. She reaches down blindly and, with manual dexterity that Santana's never known Brittany to possess, Brittany unbuttons and unzips Santana's jeans with her free hand, sliding it under Santana's boyshorts, the pads of her fingertips suddenly pressing hard circles around Santana's clit.

Santana bucks her hips, searching for friction. "_Shit_."

Brittany's fingers glide teasingly across Santana's center, and then she _stops_. "I think we're missing the game."

Santana groans, working her hands up Brittany's shirt. "_Seriously?_"

"Yeah," Brittany laughs breathlessly, dipping two fingertips inside Santana. "Don't you want to know who wins?"

"B, _ungh_, no, they could all die in a fire for all I care," Santana babbles, pushing herself against Brittany's fingers. "Holy shit, don't tease."

Brittany leans down, bringing their mouths together, as she starts pumping her fingers in and out steadily. Santana moans, her palms gliding over Brittany's back, trying to pull her closer. Brittany picks up a quicker rhythm, her other hand still cupping Santana's breast. Lightly, Brittany pinches a nipple between her fingers, and Santana gasps against Brittany's lips, feeling her skin searing with pleasure.

Brittany grinds down against Santana's thigh, and Santana tries to lift her leg to give Brittany better access, but she can barely stand as it is, so she slides her lips down to Brittany's neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses anywhere she can reach. Santana's hands roam to Brittany's upper back, and she deftly unclasps Brittany's bra.

Brittany laughs breathlessly and adds a third finger. Santana groans, head falling forward as her face presses against Brittany's shoulder, her body tuning only into the thrust of Brittany's fingers.

"I fucking love it when you're inside me," Santana gasps, sliding her hands around to Brittany's chest and slipping her hands under the unclasped bra to roll her palms over Brittany's breasts.

Brittany moans. "We might get caught, you know," Brittany murmurs, digging the heel of her hand down against Santana's clit as she works her fingers in and out of slick heat.

Santana's head falls back, hitting the wall behind her. "It's pretty dark here," she reasons, trying really hard to even think straight. Her palms roll over Brittany's nipples, eliciting a pleased sigh.

"Mm, pretty sure they could see us if they looked really hard," Brittany counters, staring straight at Santana, her hips rocking against Santana's thigh. "Like maybe they'd just stand around and watch," Brittany adds. "You're hot when you're turned on."

Santana leans forward, catching Brittany's lips with her own. Brittany's fingers move faster as Santana's tongue dips into her mouth. The feeling of Brittany pressed against her, Brittany's breasts in her palms, Brittany's fingers inside her, is enough to rock Santana to the edge. Santana's body tenses, muscles clenching as a whimper escapes her throat. Brittany's thumb flicks across Santana's clit, fingers burrowing deep, and Santana cries out as she climaxes, her body shuddering as waves of pleasure undulate through her.

"Britt, Britt, Britt," Santana mumbles over and over again, feeling Brittany's body pushing hers hard against the wall. Good thing, too, because her legs? Cannot fucking feel them.

Gently, Brittany moves her hand away and out of Santana's boyshorts, trailing a path of moisture up her abdomen that makes Santana shiver. Santana smoothes her palms up and down Brittany's breasts, and Brittany smiles, arching slightly.

Santana lets out a heavy breath and leans forward, taking in Brittany's scent, citrusy with the slightest hint of sweat. "Hey."

Brittany pulls her hand out of Santana's bra. "What?"

"Nothing. I just—I adore you, you know that?" Santana reaches up and threads her fingers through Brittany's hair. "I don't think I tell you that enough. Or like ever. But I totally do."

Brittany beams. "I know."

"Let me show you, okay?" she asks gently, a sudden rush of affection pushing against her chest.

Brittany presses a kiss to Santana's throat. "Okay, but—"

"_What the hell is going on here?_"

Brittany and Santana's heads snap simultaneously to the third voice, and they find a security guard standing at the end of the hall. Brittany quickly pulls away, and Santana untangles herself, reaching down to button and zip up her jeans. Brittany reaches behind her and clasps her bra, then readjusts her shirt. The security guard extends his arm toward the wall, and harsh light illuminates the hallway. Brittany shields her eyes, and Santana squints against the sudden brightness, quickly reaching down to grab the bag she'd earlier abandoned.

The security guard looks taken aback for a second. "You girls shouldn't be back here," he finally says.

Santana steps forward and crosses her arms over her chest. She can hear her heartbeat pounding in her ears, but she refuses to let that show. "We got lost," she shrugs. "You really should put up better signs around this place."

"Well," Brittany interjects, "we were actually having sex, but—" She trails off and looks uneasily at Santana.

Santana clears her throat. "We were lost," she insists again.

This time, Brittany doesn't refute. The security guard blanches considerably. He looks back and forth between the two girls before shaking his head and turning around. He mutters something that sounds like 'get back to the game' and disappears.

Santana reaches out and grabs Brittany around the waist. "You're the worst liar ever."

"Honesty is the best policy," Brittany recites sweetly.

Santana cannot help but smile. "You know, you're lucky you're cute."

Brittany beams. "I know," she replies, pressing a kiss to Santana's shoulder. "You're cute too."

Santana tightens her grip around Brittany. "Wanna get back to what we were doing?"

Brittany looks conflicted. "That man said we should go back to the game though."

"Suddenly you care about hockey?" Santana asks, smoothing her hand over Brittany's shirt.

"I don't want to get in trouble," Brittany explains, looking toward where the security guard had gone. "The lights are on, and—he might come back."

Santana bites the inside of her cheek. "We can just leave now, if you want."

Brittany seems to consider it for a moment. "I can wait," she finally answers. "Let's go watch the rest of the match."

Santana leans her forehead momentarily against Brittany's shoulder. "I know why you're doing this, B," she sighs, "and you don't have to."

Brittany shrugs. "I want to watch the game."

"You can't tell the difference between the goalpost and a defenseman, Britt," Santana fires back, frowning. "You don't want to watch the game." She reaches for Brittany's hand. "Let's just go."

"I want to watch the game," Brittany insists, "because you used to watch it with your dad, and—"

Santana cuts her off with a hard but quick kiss. "I know," she says when she pulls away, feeling something shifting in her chest. "I know you're the sweetest thing in my life, and I know all you want is for me and my dad to go back to the way we were when I was a little kid, but that's not going to happen, okay? It's just not. He works too much and, and I don't care. I didn't bring you here because I wanted to talk about my family."

Brittany leans against Santana. "I think this is a date."

Santana's eyes meet Brittany's. "Yeah?"

Brittany nods. "For sure."

Brittany's pinky curls around Santana's, and without a word, she tugs Santana down the hall and back to the game.

* * *

Brittany eats a hot dog.

No, _gross_, she eats an _actual_ hot dog. They're at a hockey game, okay? It's the norm.

Brittany eats a hot dog and gets mustard all over her lips, which Santana would lick off, except she hates mustard more than she hates Rachel Berry's fashion sense. So she reaches over and wipes it away with the pad of her thumb, and Brittany's tongue flicks out to lick it away.

"Okay, so," Brittany garbles around a mouthful of beef, pointing her hot dog toward the rink. "When someone gets a penalty, they sit in that box, right?"

Santana's line of sight follows Brittany's hot dog. "Right."

"When my cat is bad, we put him in his carrying case. Does that mean my cat can play hockey?"

"No…"

"What size skates do you think he wears?"

Santana places her hand on Brittany's thigh. "You can't teach your cat to skate, Britt."

Brittany blinks. "What if I take a human skate and chop it into little pieces? Can you use duck tape on cats or is it only for ducks?"

"It's _duct_ tape," Santana corrects gently, "so you can use it wherever you want, but since I'm going to be the one cutting the tape off your cat's paws while he tries to scratch my eyes out, do me a favor and keep him away from sticky surfaces."

Brittany considers this for a moment. "Do you want a bite of my hot dog?"

Santana smiles and leans her head on Brittany's shoulder. "No, B. You finish it."

Brittany falls asleep in the first ten minutes of the third period. This would be okay except that the game is tied at 2-2 and starting to get intense, and Santana really just doesn't want any sudden loud noises to scare Brittany. She digs around in her bag and pulls out her headphones. Gently, she hooks them over Brittany's ears and puts on some Britney ballads, making sure to keep the volume low. Her headphones are pretty badass at noise cancelation, anyway. Brittany doesn't even stir, and Santana presses a kiss to Brittany's forehead before returning her attention to the game.

Everything goes well, until R.J. Umberger finds the back of the net with a minute and a half to go, and the arena roars with the sound of eighteen thousand ecstatic fans. Santana's pretty sure most of the spectators don't know the difference between the blue line and their own asshole, but whatever. Santana's immediate reaction is to check on Brittany, but she's still sound asleep.

When the noise dies down a little, Santana reaches over and gently shakes Brittany awake. Brittany's eyes flutter open, and she quickly takes in her surroundings.

"Where—"

Santana pushes her headphones off Brittany's ears. "Hockey game, remember?"

Brittany stares for a moment. "Oh. I was at Hogwarts."

"What?"

"Ron used his wand on me," Brittany explains, looking around dazedly. "And then Hermione touched my boobs, and—"

"Oh god," Santana groans, "please stop talking."

Brittany's eyes snap to Santana's. "But you touch my boobs all the time."

The man sitting next to Brittany turns to look at them, and Santana flushes.

"And I didn't like Ron's wand that much," Brittany continues. "It was too thin and kind of pointy."

At this point, the man's eyes are wide, and he isn't making any attempts to hide his revulsion.

Santana leans protectively over Brittany and stares the man down. "Excuse me, is there a problem?"

The man holds up his hands defensively and turns back to the game. The crowd suddenly erupts again, as the Blue Jackets pot an empty-netter to secure their win.

Santana leans close to Brittany's ear. "Let's get out of here."

"Game isn't finished yet," Brittany protests, sitting up straight and rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

Santana stands up, tugging at Brittany's hand. "I know, but trust me. We wait 'til the end of the game and we'll never get out."

Brittany nods, and both of them hurry toward the exit, hands still clasped together.

* * *

"You okay?" Santana asks as she looks over at Brittany in the passenger's seat.

Brittany rubs her arms. "It's cold."

Santana pulls her jersey up over head and carefully tugs it down over Brittany's shoulders. Brittany slides her arms in, and the rest of the jersey slips easily down over her midsection.

Brittany burrows herself into the jersey. "Aren't you cold?"

"Nah, I'll be fine," Santana replies, reaching into her bag to fish out her keys. "Seat belt."

Brittany pulls her seat belt over her chest and clips it in. "Santana?"

Slowly, Santana begins to pull out of the parking lot. "What, Britt?"

Brittany yawns, leaning her head back against the headrest. "Tonight was fun."

Santana smirks. "Especially for me." She glances over again. "Hey, let's check into a hotel, okay? I don't feel like making the drive back tonight. It's dark, I'm tired, and I really just want to finish what we started back in that hallway."

Brittany's head lolls to the side, and a sleepy smile stretches across her lips. "Okay," she agrees.

Traffic is terrible, and Santana really fucking hates driving, but when Brittany's hand falls on Santana's lap, her fingertips lazily tracing indiscernible shapes against Santana's thigh, Santana decides that she really doesn't hate long car rides with Brittany as passenger.

Even when she tries to play completely terrible car games.

* * *

As soon as the hotel door slams shut, it takes them all of forty-five seconds to strip down and jump in the shower, and another ten before Santana is on her knees, mouth wet against Brittany's clit as hot water pounds down on them.

It doesn't take long before Brittany's panting, hips pushing forward for every scrap of extra friction. Santana thrusts her tongue, tasting Brittany, feeling Brittany's warmth against her lips, and she loves every moment of it. Brittany, cheeks flushed, watches Santana's every move with glazed eyes. It stokes something in Santana's chest as tension builds up between her own legs.

"That's so good," Brittany mumbles, her hand finding the back of Santana's head, fingers curling around damp hair.

Santana moans in response, her palms coming to rest against Brittany's hips, thumbs brushing over Brittany's hipbones. Brittany has the nicest fucking hipbones, and Santana's always had a thing.

Brittany's grip tightens. "Santana…"

Santana picks up the pace, her tongue flicking across soft flesh, over and over, alternating between rough and tender strokes, until Brittany's body tenses, and she jerks forward as her muscles tighten and quake.

Santana keeps her eyes open even as Brittany's eyelids flutter, and her line of sight travels up Brittany's toned abdomen, over her heaving chest, finally settling on Brittany's face. Brittany's mouth is slightly open, her eyes screwed shut, and Santana doesn't think she's ever seen anything so gorgeous.

When Brittany's body finally slackens, her grip around Santana's hair tempering, Santana brushes her tongue over Brittany one last time before pulling away. She kisses a path up the length of Brittany's torso, feeling heated skin against her lips. There's nothing better.

Santana's hands are still at Brittany's hips, and Brittany's fingertips roll down Santana's spine, settling against the small of Santana's back. Santana leans closer until their bodies are pressed together, skin slick with the spray of the showerhead above. Santana dots soft kisses to the column of Brittany's neck, traveling up until she takes an earlobe into her mouth and sucks gently, loving the whimper she gets in return. Santana's hand reaches between their pelvises, fingertips finding Brittany's clit again, and—

"Santana," Brittany moans, but there's a hint of seriousness hidden behind layers of arousal that Santana manages to pick up.

Santana lifts her head. "What is it?"

"I don't like hockey," Brittany admits quietly, her breath hot and unsteady.

Santana's jaw drops open. "Are you serious?"

Brittany looks conflicted, and her hips buck against Santana's hand. "Yeah, I can't even see the puck most of the time, and the players move too fast. And I know you explained the rules to me like a hundred times, but I still don't get the difference between osbruction and inferterence."

"Obstruction and interference," Santana corrects, then laughs in disbelief. "Are you seriously worried about this right now? _Right now_, when I'm ready to fuck you until you can't walk straight." To prove her point, Santana slides two fingers down and burrows them deep, her other hand tightening its grip around Brittany's hip.

Brittany's head tilts back, hitting the wall behind her. "I just know it's important to you," she manages around a groan. "I want to like it, so we can go again."

"Britt, I really don't care that you don't like hockey," Santana growls, thrusting faster. "Trust me, I did not miss the second period _at all_."

Brittany doesn't push that any further, but her hands do fumble their way between Santana's legs, and suddenly, very little else seems of consequence.

Heavy breaths and drawn-out moans fill the room as fingers plunge deep, and there's nowhere else Santana would rather be than right here, with Brittany's naked body pressed against hers as steaming water whips down against them.

* * *

"You look pretty hot wearing my jersey," Santana comments, draping her arm over Brittany's midsection.

Brittany shifts under the covers, snuggling close until her head is cradled against Santana's neck. Her hand slides down Santana's side. "You're naked."

Santana chuckles. "That a problem?"

"Nope," Brittany replies with a sleepy grin.

They remain together, wrapped up in each other, drawing comfort that comes only from familiarity, from years and years of being best friends, then best friends with benefits, then best friends with—with something else.

"You should talk to your dad," Brittany murmurs, her breath hot and insistent against Santana's neck. Santana tries not to twitch, hopes she can pretend to be asleep, even as her heart starts to hammer in her chest. "I know it's kind of weird now," Brittany continues, "but it doesn't have to be."

Santana remains very still, keeping her breath even in an attempt to mimic sleep. In a spectacularly _failed_ attempt as it turns out, though at this point, Santana isn't quite sure if Brittany is just talking to make noise or if she actually knows that Santana is wide awake.

Either way, Brittany keeps talking. "I can go with you, if you want. I can talk a lot and make it not weird. I just want you to have a dad, Santana." She shifts slightly against Santana's body, the fabric of her jersey rubbing against Santana's skin. "I know he's not around a lot, but that doesn't mean he doesn't love you. I was in Europe all summer, remember? And I still—"

Santana turns her body over suddenly, apparently surprising Brittany because she abruptly stops talking. Santana swallows hard and rolls Brittany onto her back before climbing over her. Their lips meet quietly but heatedly, gentle presses and soft dips, and Santana moans at the sensation.

Brittany's hands thread through Santana's hair, and Santana tugs the jersey up and over Brittany's breasts, letting the material bunch under Brittany's chin.

Santana lifts her head slightly, feeling the graze of nipple against her skin. She shivers, then presses a kiss to Brittany's jaw.

"You're so good to me," Santana murmurs against Brittany's neck. "I'll talk to my dad, okay? He's probably just going to look at me weird and run off to work."

"He won't," Brittany promises. "He loves you," she insists as though repetition will be enough to convince Santana.

Santana shuts her eyes and presses her face against Brittany's skin. "I love you."

Brittany leans her cheek against Santana's. "I know."

"Sometimes I just—"

"I know," Brittany says again, lifting Santana enough to press their lips together. "I know, I know."

Santana slides her mouth down to Brittany's throat, then rolls off and lies back down. "You really don't like hockey?"

Brittany shakes her head. "Nope."

Santana reaches out and pulls Brittany closer. Brittany shrugs out of the jersey and tosses it aside, then cuddles up against Santana. Their legs tangle.

"I'm still going to teach my cat how to play though," Brittany murmurs around a yawn.

Santana smiles. "Okay, Britt. Good luck."

"I don't like pucks," Brittany continues, sounding more and more distant as her eyes flutter shut. "They're not balls."

"Shh," Santana hushes, sliding her hand over Brittany's bare back. "Go to sleep, B."

Brittany whimpers something incoherent but doesn't try to speak anymore. Santana readjusts the covers over their naked bodies, taking an extra moment to brush a kiss to Brittany's temple. Brittany smiles and moves closer in her state of semi-consciousness.

Santana closes her eyes, tightens her grip, and falls into a deep, peaceful slumber.

_fin._


End file.
